


pick your poison (mine is sugar)

by orphan_account



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Asexual Character, Fluff, Grad Student Kirk, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of past abuse, Slow Burn, Sugar Daddy AU, Sugar Daddy Spock, grey ace Kirk, one sided bones/kirk, sugar daddy to lover
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-07
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-03-28 09:50:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13901484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Jim takes a breath, closes his eyes for a minute, then clicks the automatic message button.Hi, S'chn T'gai Spock!  I’m interested in your profile and would like to connect.  If you feel our requirements match up, please send me a message!  Happy sugaring, James T. K.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I was browsing the spirk tag and didn't find a sugar daddy AU. I'm not sure how popular modern AUs are in the Spirk fandom but I thought we should have at least have one (and feel free to link me if I've missed one!) 
> 
> I'm a student so I can't promise how quick I'll update, but I'll do my best. I'll be pulling from both the movies (which tbh aren't my fave) and from TOS which I grew up on, but this is modern AU so anything goes.
> 
> Fair warning, Kirk deals with some abuse in his past, and his current sugar daddy Nero is violent, but there will only ever be passing mentions, I won't be actively writing about it. Still, Kirk has a lot of healing to do, so this will be a slow burn.
> 
> I'm basing Kirk's grey asexuality on my own experience, but a reminder that no two aces are the same, and all ace experiences are worth being heard.
> 
> I'm equating Vulcan culture with Jewish culture in the modern au because representation matters and that was always my favorite thing about Vulcans (and Nimoy!)
> 
> I plan to write more In Universe Spirk in the future--I have a couple ideas which I'll be toying with over the next little while. Feel free to drop any suggestions in the comments. This fic is not beta'd, so any typos or mistakes are all on me.

He averts his eyes, mostly because he knows what Leonard is going to say—he’s only said it about a hundred times, and it’s not like Jim doesn’t understand the reality of his situation, or the truth of Bones’ words, but there’s nothing he can really do about it.

“Jim,” like a soft sigh, one that punches Jim right in the gut. “If you’d just let me…”

“You know why it doesn’t work between us,” Jim says. He flinches when Bones spreads the butterfly bandage over his cheek, then applies the salve to the bruise over his cheekbone. “You can’t handle what I need.”

Bones’ lower lip is almost white with how hard he’s biting back the words he wants to say. He’s not really a man of tact—has a reputation for having the worst bedside manner in the entire med department, but in a way, that’s why Jim’s here. That and he knows Bones is the only one who won’t say anything.

“Are you trying to tell me that you’re better off getting the tar smacked out of you for those peanuts he’s paying you?” Bones’ words are sharp and angry, and Jim gets why. It’s just exhausting, trying to justify his choices.

“It’s not going to be forever, you know.” Jim sighs, then hops off the exam table and reaches for his jacket. “Anyway, thanks for the…”

“Spare me,” Bones says, angry enough that he’ll let Jim go without a real goodbye, and then text him later when he’s over his tantrum. Jim has been with this new guy for nearly six months now, and yeah he’s making a lot less from this one than he has been, but the others don’t really want to stick around when they realize Jim isn’t interested in changing his mind regarding his terms. So he has to settle for what he can get. A little frustration in the form of a couple punches to the face is worth the cash in his account the next day, even if it’s not really covering what he needs. Even if he still has to tend bar to make his rent.

At least grad school is still an option.

He sweeps out the door and ignores Nyota’s dark look as she grabs a patient file, and he gets into his shitty little beater car. Most sugar babies have a lot more than this. A nice ride, a sweet apartment, and enough money to cover their bills, debt, and then some. But most of them aren’t limited the way Jim is. He’s tried before. He’s tried to fulfil what sugar daddies want. But forcing himself into the types of sex his body and mind just can’t handle was killing him. And he’s no good to his degree a dead man. He’s no good to Sammy, or his mother, or his future if he’s six feet under instead of debt-free and able to help.

So he settles for three hundred a week to get kicked around a little and taken on shitty dates to appear like the loving boyfriend that Nero needs to impress his colleagues or whatever. And it’s a good thing that even with a misplaced hit to the face, Jim’s both really fucking pretty, and a really fucking good liar. He can get away with a few butterfly stitches and a story about a stray ball at the batting cages.

Normally Nero’s a little more careful than this, but the night before…he hadn’t been. The night before he’d been frustrated and angry and he couldn’t get off with his dick, so he did it another way. Jim had slept on it, but by morning he knew if he didn’t get treated, it would be a mistake and Bones really would kill him, then.

He checks his phone before he takes off down the street, and he’s relieved to find nothing. It means he can order a cheap pizza and get a few hours nap in before he’s on shift. Then he’s pulling an all nighter for his paper, and then the whole cycle starts again. It’s not a good life—it’s a fucking shit life, actually—but it’s his life and he’ll deal with it however he sees fit.

\--- 

He’s halfway through the late shift—the bar mostly full of really drunk frat bros, most of which brandishing fake IDs, but he’s stopped caring a long, long time ago. They’re drunk enough to be dropping whatever leftover singles they brought back from the strip clubs.

He’s mostly pouring Jägerbombs and Red Bull-Vodkas which he can’t believe are still a fucking thing, but they’re expensive so his boss is going to be happy with him at least. Anton is busy mopping up broken glass when Jim’s phone buzzes incessantly in his pocket, and since there’s a lull in drink service, he leans against the register and opens his messages.

He’s unsurprised to see Bones’ name on the screen.

**I’m not sorry for my shitty attitude, but I might have a solution to your problem. Coffee tomorrow?**

_I can be free at 11 for lunch. Only an hour._

**See u then.**

For a doctor, he’s got the worst texting etiquette too, but Jim can’t possibly give any shits about it. He just sighs and pours himself some tonic with a few cherries and crushed ice and watches as the hours tick by, and the bar shuts down, and his life goes on.

He unwinds by washing pint glasses in the sink, and tries not to feel how the harsh chemicals make his skin around his nails crack, and he wonders what his father would think of him now.

\--- 

Thursday mornings Jim has his anthro lecture, which goes on four nearly three hours. He’s starving and annoyed and exhausted by the time he gets to the Campus Café, but he sees Bones already there—in his stupid striped shirt and mismatched tie, with two coffees ready.

Jim flops into the chair and digs out a half squashed turkey sandwich from his bag, and he gulps down the coffee, searing the roof of his mouth before he motions for Bones to start talking.

Which he does.

“I know a guy…”

“No.” It’s an easy dismiss, because Bones always knows a guy, but the two times Jim tried it didn’t work out. It was a fucking disaster, actually.

“Hear me out,” he demands.

Jim puts one elbow on the wrought iron table, the metal digging into his skin, and he shoves half the sandwich into his mouth, speaking around the half-masticated food. “Why should I? Do I seriously need to say the name Brad to you?”

Bones visibly winces, and drags a hand down his face. “Okay fair, but this is different.”

Jim snorts. “Right. Different. Where have I heard that before. Where have I…” He shoves the other half of the sandwich into his cheek like he’s a fucking human hamster, and he slaps the table, making the coffees rock precariously. “Oh! Right! Fucking Ben.”

Bones sighs. “Would it help if I told you this guy’s name doesn’t start with a B? And that I’m not here trying to vouch for his personality because he’s a class A fucking goblin whom I can’t stand, but he would be perfect for you. And I happen to know he’s looking.”

Jim can’t help but frown, and he can’t help but be intrigued. “So you hate this guy and he’s an epic dick, and you think he’d be perfect for me? How…the hell does that even work, Bones?”

Bones shrugs. “I heard through the grapevine that he’s looking. He’s filthy rich, this will be his second go. His last baby walked away with no debt and a set-up that could carry her for like five years after school or some shit? And according to her he didn’t make her do any weird shit, and nothing sexual. She just dressed in the ridiculously expensive clothes he bought her, and showed up on his arm to whatever events he needed to show up at, and…I don’t know. Provided companionship or something?”

“What is he, ninety?” Jim demanded, not that it was a deal-breaker or anything, but he didn’t think some young, virile man around his age is going to be looking for his sparkling personality in exchange for heaps of cash.

“He’s thirty-six. He’s got some high-ranking position at the teaching hospital—or the University, I don’t know. I think he teaches, too. And his dad is some famous dude from Vulcan. In politics or some shit, an Ambassador. Just…look, I have his contact info and I’ve heard that you’re pretty much exactly what he’s looking for. With your, you know…special uh…”

“Requirements?” Jim offers.

Bones looks slightly chagrined. “If you’d just let me fucking fall in love with you, none of this would be a problem.”

Jim sighs, but he makes a go-ahead motion, and in a few swipes of Bones’ phone screen, the guy’s link appears in a message. Jim doesn’t click on it. Yet. At least it’s through their network so he knows the guy is vetted and as safe as he can get. And Jim doesn’t really need to explain himself over and over because it’s all on the screen.

“I’ll…think about it,” he finally promises.

“Good. Because if you show up to my office with one more bruise, you’re going to have to find yourself a new doctor while they try me for murder.” Bones rises, and he grabs his cup, then walks around to stand in front of Jim. His careful but not-so-kind fingers prod at the bandages and the bruising, and when Jim winces, he just gives the other man a, ‘What did you expect,’ look. When he’s satisfied, he leans in and kisses the top of his head. “I’m not fucking kidding, Jimmy.”

“I know,” Jim mutters. His fingers are itching to actually look at this guy’s profile because frankly, Nero’s getting a bit much and he thinks if he gets hit one more time, _he’ll_ probably end up the one on trial, and Bones will be footing his lawyer bill like the good friend he is.

He waits less than three minutes after Bones is gone to head out, and he determinedly doesn’t look at his phone as he heads to the library to finish up his research.

\--- 

It’s nearly one in the morning, and he should be sleeping, but instead he’s staring at his laptop screen at the guy on the page. It’s a generic photo, almost like some author photo on the back of a book cover. The guy is pale, sharp cheekbones, groomed eyebrows, and outdated bowl cut. But there’s no denying he’s attractive, either. He’s not smiling—in fact he’s got a look about him that says he never smiles. His name is strange. S'chn T'gai Spock. Obviously Vulcan. It indicates that he goes by Spock, and Jim has to wonder if anyone’s been brave enough to make Dr. Spock jokes at him.

With the look in his gleaming, dark eyes, he assumes not.

He was born in ShiKhar on Vulcan, but moved to New York where his father worked at the Federation embassy. His mother is human, he got his early education on Vulcan, then his Masters at Oxford, and his doctorate at Columbia, and he lives surprisingly not far from where Jim lives now. Or at least, the website indicates the general area, and it’s close to the University, so it makes sense.

His wants are simple. He’s listed companionship as his top priority, and availability to attend public events. Travel is a must, and therefore so is a passport. Luckily Jim spent some time in Toronto, so he’s covered on that end. Where the sexual preferences is, the man listed negotiable, and same thing with weekly allowance. Giving gifts is listed as preferred, as is a preference for paying bills separate to the weekly allowance. He prefers students paying off debt, and gender is not important.

He wants to be angry that Bones was right, but this guy does seem right up his alley. At the very least, it’s worth a shot. It’s worth getting out from Nero’s fists, and maybe taking a chance on a guy who isn’t going to fuck him over, and actually make this life choice he made feel worth it. And a little extra in his bank account means a little extra sent home to his mom and Sam and well, he can’t count that as a bad thing.

Jim takes a breath, closes his eyes for a minute, then clicks the automatic message button.

_Hi, S'chn T'gai Spock! I’m interested in your profile and would like to connect. If you feel our requirements match up, please send me a message! Happy sugaring, James T. K._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who subscribed and read the previous chapter, just wanted to note that I made a few small changes to the story. I've decided to include alien species to make this more inclusive of canon, so it's not a full AU. Nero is still a Romulan, Spock is still a Vulcan, and space travel still exists. Otherwise it shouldn't have much of an impact on the story. I went back and updated the first chapter on the changes.
> 
> Thanks for you comments so far! Hope you like the update!

Possibly the only thing that saves his ass when his phone goes off in the middle of the lecture was the fact that it’s Pike’s class, and Jim is—for all anyone could actually _be one_ in grad school—the teacher’s pet. Where he would have been humiliated or thrown out or—like Chapman would have done—had his phone smashed into bits by the heel of a shoe, instead Pike just gives him a raised brow and disappointed sigh.

Which maybe feels worse, really. Mostly because where Pike is concerned, Jim actually wants to try, wants to impress him, wants to feel worthy of his attentions.

It’s also, for the first time, difficult to concentrate on the rest of Pike’s lecture, because Jim isn’t expecting any messages. Therefore it is reasonable to assume that it is a message from Mr. Spock. The anxiety lies solely in the fact that he’s had a rather ugly conversation with Nero the night before and Jim is damn near desperate to leave the inevitable break-up message on his phone, and initiate the refund of the pittance Nero had left in his account the day before.

Jim hasn’t touched it, knowing full well he’s going to be giving it back whether or not he has another sugar daddy lined up. The only real problem is his tuition payment is coming up, and all those zeroes are giving him serious indigestion because his savings account has barely a third, and he doesn’t think he can face it if he receives the message from the University that he’s lost enrollment. Bones will cover him, if he’s desperate enough, but Jim just really, really cannot cross that line. Not with him.

“A moment, Mr. Kirk.”

Jim sighs, his hand in his pocket on his phone, and he turns, plastering on the best, most adorable, crooked smile he can muster in hopes of getting out of this. “Hey professor, I really don’t have time to…”

“My office.” Pike’s tone books no argument, and since he’s also Jim’s advisor, he has a little more sway than anyone else leading Jim’s classes.

Fuck.

Jim hikes his bag up higher on his shoulder and bows his head, following Pike through the side door which leads to the faculty office hallway.

Pike’s office is at the very far end, with the largest window—a fact he likes to remind any professor within earshot at any given time—and Jim is very familiar with it by now, and it’s only his first semester there. When the door swings open, Jim is hit with the familiar scent of the spicy tea Pike claims makes his nerve pain easier.

The real reason he has the office is because it was the only on large enough to accommodate the space he needs to maneuver his chair around, though he’s been at the University long enough, he could easily claim the office was his on merit alone.

Jim drops his bag by the door and shuts it before taking his customary seat as Pike wheels up to his desk and turns on his monitor. He says nothing as he scrolls through his email. Jim’s well used to this routine, and though his fingers itch to check his messages, he doesn’t dare. Not after that incident in class.

He braces himself for a thorough bitching out.

“Did you get my notes on your last submission?” Pike eventually asks.

Jim frowns. “I…yes, sir. I went over them and I’m going to make the changes, but that’s not even due for…”

“Who hit you?”

The question is so blunt, Jim’s startled into almost honesty. “It wasn’t a fight, if that’s what you’re thinking. He was just frustrated with me, and I mouthed off.” Strangely, Jim feels more compelled to dissuade Pike’s assumption that he was still getting into immature bar fights than being hit by a boyfriend. He flushes when he realizes what it all looks like. “I mean…”

“I’m not here to tell you how to live your life…”

“Which has stopped you exactly never,” Jim mutters.

Pike goes on like he’d said nothing. “…but I will tell you that certain relationships will affect your ability to graduate on time. And I don’t think you want that. Especially since you’re here on private pay.”

Jim winces, then sighs. The whole point of Nero was so Jim could afford it. Unlike the other students in his program, he had a famous father to his name. George Kirk, one of the Highest decorated admirals in the Federation and how could the son of George Kirk not afford his own tuition?

There were so many things Jim wanted to say when the assumptions were made, but he couldn’t get his tongue to make words. Couldn’t bring himself to explain exactly what happened at fifteen, when his father died and his mother remarried and…

And a lot of things.

He drags a hand down his face. “I understand, sir. And believe me, it won’t be happening again.” Probably at the expense of his enrollment, but it’s not like Pike’s wrong. Get booted now, get booted later, it’s all the same. At least now means he wouldn’t have Nero’s fresh finger prints on his torso.

“If you need something, Jim,” Pike says then, his voice falling into that soft, characteristic father tone. The one he’d used when he found Jim in that bar all those years ago and told him how he’d known George, and how important George had been to him and how…how he knew George wanted better for his kid.

He knew how to hit exactly where it hurt.

“I’m good. Seriously. Things got messy but that’s fucking life, right? And you should see the other guy…” Smug, self-satisfied, sadistic, Jim’s brain whispers. He closes his eyes slowly, then opens them. “Anyway, if that’s all…”

“Lunch on Thursday,” Pike says, and shifts back in his chair for a second. “I found a couple books in the archives which might help you with your research.”

Jim can’t help his smile, even if he wanted to. “Thanks, sir.”

“See you, kiddo.”

Then Jim’s gone, all-but racing into the hallway. He makes it ten steps before his impulse wins out and he digs his phone out of his pocket. His heart’s thudding so hard he can hear it in his ears as he swipes the message open, and scans the words.

It takes several read throughs before they sink in.

_Hello James T.K._

_Your profile interests me. I would like to arrange an initial meeting if you would be amiable. Please select from one of the website’s date options and set up the time. I am available most days after five pm._

_Best Regards,  
Spock_

Jim thinks it’s only slightly strange that he signs the email with only his last name. Must be a Vulcan thing, really. Then again, this entire situation is…out of the ordinary. But he holds his breath and hits the date link, and selects a café that isn’t far. Coffee was always the best first date meeting, really. The cafés were always quiet enough that you could feel whether or not a connection was there, and they were busy enough that you wouldn’t get lost in the anxiety of meeting a potential match for the first time.

He hits send on the date request, and by the time he makes it to the front doors of the building, his phone chimes.

_S'chn T'gai Spock has accepted your date request! An email confirmation has been sent to your account. Happy sugaring!_

Jim lets out a shaking breath, then shoves his phone back into his pocket and marches out the doors, determined to take care of business, and lock down something that will actually, for the first time since starting this, be beneficial to his life.

\--- 

This is good. This is a good thing, this is what you want, Jim, so stop being a little bitch about it. His pep talk left a lot to be desired, but it at least got him through the door of the café where he stopped behind the short line and looked around.

Spock is easy to see, mostly because he’s tall, _God he’s tall_. And he’s got that typical, severe Vulcan hair which Jim knows mostly by media since the Vulcans don’t spend a lot of time on Earth. His skin is pale like most Vulcans, which Jim always thought strange considering how hot Vulcan is—at least everything he’s learned about it, but he’s studying Anthropology, not biology so what does he know? Spock is also attractive, unfairly in a way that a lot of alien species are. He sits straight backed with a passive face and his upturned eyebrows quirking every so often as he waits.

Jim takes a breath, then crosses the room and hopes he looks put together and not like a complete mess. He’s passively aware of his battered cheek and knows he probably looks like a street rat or something hoping to latch on to a big fish in the sugar daddy pond. And in a way, yeah. He is. Except that he was able to afford the rather large fee to sign up for the sugaring services, which Spock surely knows.

Jim isn’t sure if that fact makes him more or less appealing.

He does note that when Spock takes sight of him, his face remains passive, his lips in a thin line, his eyebrows stationary. He stands and clasps his hands behind his back. Jim’s seen Vulcans do that on TV before too, and he knows there’s something about their hands different to humans. He wonders briefly if the hand clasping is to avoid the human compulsion to shake them, or if it’s Vulcan culture.

Either way, Jim knows enough about their society, and was clever enough to look up a greeting so he says, “T'nar pak sorat y'rani,” and doesn’t offer his hand.

Spock, for his part, maybe looks impressed. It’s damn near impossible to tell, but he does raise one eyebrow and inclines his head shortly. Then he sits, and Jim does the same. “Do you speak Vulcan?” There’s just the barest lilt to his voice, like an accent, though Vulcans are famous for being multi-lingual without accent.

Jim shakes his head. “Ah. No. I’m not a linguist, I’m an anthropologist. Student,” he clarifies. “I’m at the University right now.”

Spock makes a considering noise, but he doesn’t say anything. A server comes up a moment later, though and places two mugs on the table. Jim’s smells like some sort of mocha concoction and Spock’s is watery and spicy. A tea obviously, something not from earth. He has the sudden urge to ask Spock if he can try it, but he restrains himself because that is not the impression he wants to give off.

“So. I’ve only done this a couple of times,” Jim starts. “So I’m not like an expert or anything.”

Spock looks at him, his almond-shaped eyes considering. “I was made aware.” He reaches down, lifts his cup to his lips with the most elegant gesture Jim has ever seen. It kind of makes him ache in his chest in a way he’s not sure he’s ever experienced. “As I am sure you have been made aware that you would be my second.”

Jim nods. “I. Yeah. I actually got put in touch with your profile from uh…” He hesitates, because it’s not like he wants it to be a secret, but he’s not sure how Bones will feel about actually being a part of this whole thing.

Spock, for his part, just cocks his head to the side.

“A friend of mine saw your profile and thought you and I would be a good match,” he finally says.

“I believe you are speaking of your friend Leonard McCoy. In which case he has probably made you aware that he and I often…conflict.”

Jim flushes. “Uh. Yeah, he sort of mentioned.” He rubs the back of his neck nervously.

Spock’s eyebrow goes a little higher. “And yet you chose not only to pursue my profile, but to send a message.”

“Seemed like a good idea at the time?” Jim offers, not really sure where Spock is going with this. Did he agree just to come here and mock him or…

“Fascinating.”

The word stings in a way. He knows that a lot of the sugar daddies want something to oogle and frankly as long as they’re looking and not touching, he doesn’t care all that much. But this is a much more…he’s not even sure how to describe it. Like his very being is being dissected by this man and it’s not something he’s experienced. And strangely, he finds himself wanting more. To illicit more than just, _fascinating_.

“Look man, if it’s a problem…I mean Bones and I are close friends, but he doesn’t have anything to do with my personal life and I don’t appreciate…”

“I have upset you,” Spock says mildly, and that soothing tone shuts all of Jim’s anger down almost instantly. “That was not my intention. I simply meant to comment that I was not anticipating a message from someone who holds Dr. McCoy in high regard. He has made it quite plain how he feels about my species, myself included.”

Jim bites the inside of his cheek because he loves Bones but he _can_ hold prejudices that Jim isn’t really on board with. Bones is an older, southern, white guy and sometimes it shows. “I’m not…Bones and I don’t share the same views on certain things.”

“As I surmised from this meeting. I am with a fair amount of wealth, but there is no shortage of people like me who also participate in these services.” Spock sips his tea again, makes another considering noise. “Are you currently contracted?”

“No,” Jim says, and Spock gives him a _look_ , mostly it’s a look at the bruises, which causes him to reach up and absently brush his hand over where they’re healing. “Not through the website,” Jim amends. “And this is…over. What I have is over. There’s no real contract to dissolve. I just need to ah…reverse charges.”

Spock stares, unnervingly, then inclines his head just once. “I will provide sufficient start-up allowance which will ensure you do not lose financial gain from that action.”

Jim almost chokes on his too-sweet mocha. “I…wait, what?”

“Were my words unclear?” It’s not sharp, it’s an honest inquiry.

Jim shakes his head. “No I just…I mean. So you want to…” _Me_ , he thinks. Because deep down and so far, no one but the worst of the worst…and sometimes the less worse of the worst, have wanted Jim. He’s not that young, and not that pretty. He’s rough and tumble with a chipped-shoulder past which shows in a few scars and in his eyes and in the callouses in his hands, and sometimes the way they shake. And he knows these services are meant to provide youth and beauty and culture and all things that are not James Kirk.

“Did you set up this meeting with the anticipation I would reject your offer?” Spock asks.

Jim clears his throat and thinks fuck-it, because honesty so far hasn’t made things worse with Spock. “Yeah kind of? I mean, these meetings haven’t entirely worked out in my favor before. Up to now,” he amends.

Spock inclines his head again. “I should have surmised, based upon the fact that you entered into a verbal contract with a person outside of the services. Without the protection of the contracts, you are vulnerable, and a person would only subject themselves to such vulnerability if their investment was not paying off, but the services were needed.”

Right now Jim kind of hates logic, but he also kind of loves it because it’s nice not having to spell shit out. “Uh. Pretty much, yeah.”

Spock nods, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out cash, and leaves it under the sugar bowl. He rises, and makes a gesture for Jim to follow. Normally Jim’s first reaction to being _beckoned_ would be to scoff and rebel, but something about Spock makes him want to obey and that…well. That’s something to think about later.

They head outside, and Spock stops, taking out his phone. He taps on the screen for several moments, then Jim’s phone chimes in his pocket. He pulls it out, and he knows what it’s going to be, but all the same, the message startles him.

“An entry contract,” he says.

Spock nods. “It will allow me to transfer funds to your account while you divest yourself of all other obligation. We will meet again to discuss our more nuanced contract, as well as your requests and weekly allowance.” Before Jim can speak, Spock is suddenly all up in his space, and his hand comes up, very brief, and presses on the bruise. It hurts. “I would request you allow me to ensure your protection as you terminate this…contract.” It’s the first time there’s any inflection in Spock’s tone, and right now it’s dripping with disdain.

It makes him want to absorb everything about him. To know him better than he’s ever known anyone. It’s a startling feeling, and he reels it in. “Dude, seriously. I’ll be fine.”

“As you humans are so fond of saying,” Spock says then, very slowly like maybe he’ll get the colloquialism wrong, “humor me.”

Jim can’t help it. He laughs, a startled sound, and against his better judgement, he drops a hand on Spock’s shoulder and squeezes for the quickest moment. When Spock doesn’t pull away, or flinch, or make any displeasure known, Jim considers it a win. “Alright, man. If that will make you happy.”

“My pleasure or displeasure over your agreement to my terms is illogical, Mr. Kirk. This person you are engaged with is clearly a danger to your person, and it would only benefit our situation if I were to provide adequate safety.”

That. Well, that stings. “Look, I really can take care of him myself. The only reason I didn’t was because it was…” He stops. God, he’s so not in a place to actually explain that he was willingly letting himself get smacked around for cash. “It’s fine. I would appreciate it if you could trust me.” When Spock hesitates, Jim says, “What if I promise to call you if I’m in actual danger. Or if anything happens.”

Spock considers, then nods. “That is an acceptable arrangement.” He then hands over his phone for Jim to put his number in, and a text is exchanged. Before Jim can walk away, Spock stops him. “Dr. McCoy, he has treated all of your injuries from these encounters?”

“Yes,” Jim says, then adds, “but he wasn’t happy about it.”

“Indeed.” Spock then nods at him, turns on his heel, and walks away.

A moment later, Jim’s phone pings again and when he looks at it, it’s a deposit notification. His eyes bug out at the amount, and he almost calls Spock back because he might not be used to finding what he needs with the website, but he knows no one gives a signing bonus this high.

Spock though, is gone, and belatedly Jim thinks that Spock wouldn’t appreciate having the amount questioned. It does make it a thousand times easier when he logs into his other account, and reverses the charges back to Nero’s account.

And he finds double pleasure in sending the last text he ever plans on sending to that man.

_Hope that last punch felt good dude, because we’re done. Processed your refund. Have a nice life, asshole._

With that, he tucks his phone into his pocket, and finds it impossible to wipe the grin off his face as he starts for home.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your comments on the last chapter! I promise to get to them all asap, but at least know for now that they literally motivated me to get this chapter written. Y'all are the best, seriously.
> 
> Warnings for this: mild, non-descriptive violence (spoilers in end notes in case you want to check that) and vague discussions of Jim's past which alludes to past abuse.

Jim expects several things from this new beginning. The first being that Nero won’t go quiet. Only he does. At least for appearances sake, there’s nothing to signify he’s in any way perturbed by the way Jim leaves him. The only thing Jim gets is a confirmation that the funds have been returned, and that Nero no longer has access to deposits. Simple enough, he thinks, though Nero’s a bang sort of guy, not a whimper, so Jim doesn’t drop his guard.

The other thing Jim expects is…well…a little more from his new sugar daddy. Spock seemed overly invested in both his safety, and ensuring he had enough funds to cover whatever he might have lost from terminating his verbal contract with Nero. That, to Jim, spoke of someone who cared. Granted, he didn’t know a lot about Vulcans, but upon meeting Spock, he had started to assume that the rumors about them being unfeeling, walking computers were unfounded.

That is also proven wrong upon his second meeting with Spock. This one takes place in Spock’s office—a posh set-up at the University in the tenured faculty offices. Spock’s got administrative quarters, which makes Jim wonder, but he doesn’t really ask about it as he’s let in. The room itself is impersonal—warm with rich, red cherry wood décor, and a plush couch next to an overflowing bookshelf near a wide window.

Spock is at his desk, looking strangely small in the overlarge chair. His face is as impassive as it was when Jim first met him in the café, and he does the typical eyebrow lift as he surveys Jim’s person. Jim thinks he’s probably looking for new injuries, but as there is none, he sits back, satisfied, and pushes a contract across the polished desk.

“Please look these over carefully and do not hesitate to make changes as you might see fit. The both of us had certain things which were to be discussed in person. I took the liberty of making an educated guess based on your other preferences when it came to things like intercourse, gifts, and allowance. Feel free to amend anything incorrect.”

The perfunctory way Spock talks about things like gifts and fucking is a little unsettling, but Jim figures it’s just the cultural differences. He takes the offered pen, some expensive fountain thing, and rubs his fingers on it, humming in pleasure at the way it feels in his palm. Perfectly weighted, perfectly balanced. He looks at it for a long time, then realizes what he’s doing and goes back to the forms.

It;s as standard as any he’d signed before. With the two other daddies he’d signed with—then had broken contract with in a matter of weeks. All of the stipulations he had on his profile had been met, and the amount for his weekly allowance was enough that he almost choked on his tongue.

“Is this…this isn’t correct, is it? That can’t be…” He startles when he realizes Spock had gotten up and was now leaning over his shoulder.

“We can negotiate a higher price, Mr. Kirk, if you are dissatisfied with…”

“No,” Jim blurts, then scrubs a hand down his face. “Sorry. Sorry I…I’m not asking for more. Christ, that’s…way more than most people are paid.”

He glances up to see Spock’s eyebrows dip in a slight frown. “I was made aware there was no standard fee, only an acceptable minimum which would keep clients satisfied and financially sound. Is this a cultural misstep of mine? As I have confessed to you before, Mr. Kirk, you would only be my second and I…”

“Jesus,” Jim breathes, and shakes his head. “It’s fine. Really. I mean hell, man, if you can afford this…”

“Your currency is of no consequence to me,” Spock says, and from anyone else it would he the worst type of bragging, but on Spock it comes out simple fact. “You will not impede my ability to remain financially secure by accepting this amount.”

“Shit,” Jim says, and his hands are trembling only a little as he reads over the gifts. _Not to exceed ten thousand credits per gift, and no less than one thousand._

Ten grand, his brain screams at him. Spock wants to pay him five thousand dollars a week, and gift him up to tend grand worth of gifts per month. This is too good to be true, and frankly it terrifies him because Jim is not the sort of man who is ever this lucky, who ever deserves something like…

“You appear to be over-analyzing the situation, Mr. Kirk.” Spock’s voice is soft, but not kind. “It was the standard amount which kept my previous companion satisfied, and I only assumed it would be the same for the next human I took under my care.”

Took under my care.

The words have the strangest, harshest feel to them, but Jim shakes his head, breathes through it, then goes on.

“There’s nothing here regarding uh…intercourse,” Jim says, his tongue fumbling around the too-formal word.

“It is not something I require,” Spock says. “Therefore it is only logical that it remain up to you.”

“You’re not adverse to it?”

“Vulcan biology is similar enough to that of a human,” Spock says, and when Jim frowns, Spock resumes his seat, then lets his hands come to rest on the desk and continues. “That is to say, Vulcans derive pleasure from sexual intercourse outside of the urge to reproduce, similar to that of a human. I am amenable to the act, should the person under my care wish for such a relationship. However Vulcans are also a people of logic, and if my companion does not wish for sexual intercourse, it would therefore be illogical for me to consider the action.”

Jim’s head is spinning with the way he speaks, and he has to take a couple of breaths before he says, “Can we leave it blank?” When Spock’s mouth opens, presumably to argue that it would be _illogical_ to leave something so integral to the contract blank, he says, “Can we just put in a clause that says should both parties consent to sex, we can, you know…have sex. But the payment and gifts aren’t contingent on the act.”

“Affirmative. I believe something like that can be amended,” Spock says after some time.

Jim nods, but frowns at himself because never in his life did he think he’d be advocating to leave sex on the table. In fact, it had been through sheer force of will he’d allowed himself to compromise in the two contracts before, and he’d regretted both times. Deeply. But something is telling him not to. Maybe it’s the way that Spock is putting the decision entirely in his hands.

The rest of the contract is standard. Spock would take care of Jim’s living expenses and tuition separate from the allowance, which meant that Jim could easily send money home, easily take care of any financial crises that arose and it wouldn’t matter, it wouldn’t take anything away from him. Fear rises in him again, but he tamps it down and tells him that good things can happen to people like him. And if it falls apart, well he’s no worse off than he was before.

He expects…he’s not sure. Something. Something more than Spock showing him to the door and saying, “I will be in contact when I am in need of your companionship.”

Then the door shuts, and he’s on his own.

Two hours go by, and his phone pings, asking him to confirm the submission of the contract. He agrees, almost blindly, nearly walking into a pole as he’s heading for the nearest coffee house. By the time he reaches the front of the line and puts in an order for a green tea latte, his phone is pinging again.

_Five thousand Federation Credits have been added to your account. Please accept to transfer the credits to your personal account, or decline to return the credits back to the original sender._

He pretends his hands aren’t shaking hard enough to spill his tea as he hits select, and he feels his breath hitch in his chest when he realizes that yeah—for whatever else this might become in the future, right now, this is real.

\--- 

“Okay man, I seriously don’t get it. Obviously you know this guy, and it’s more and more obvious I don’t know shit about Vulcans.” Jim is with Bones, Nyota, and Hikaru at the bar he formerly worked at—and had quit, hopefully on good terms in case this all goes to shit. But it does feel good as hell to be sitting in a booth instead of serving one, and to know he can shove a ridiculous amount of credits in the tip jar at the end of the night because one, it’ll make Gaila smile and it’ll pay her electric bill for the month, and two, because it won’t fucking matter to his bank account because he’s got another five-k coming in three days. 

Fuck. That’s not going to get old any time soon.

He’s profoundly aware of the looks he’s getting from Bones and Nyota, the only two who actually know about his…situation. He’s friendly with Hikaru enough, but Hikaru is teaching now at the University and he vaguely recalls that he’d done some student teaching in one of Spock’s classes the semester before and he doesn’t want to sell the guy out.

“What’s your point, kid?” Bones demands.

Jim shrugs one shoulder. “I just…like how much bullshit is all that stuff we think we know about them? I mean we know a little from all that First Contact stuff, but I can’t really work out how much of it is real.”

“All you need to know is that they’re green-blooded, unfeeling little goblins who will sell you out if they deem it logical,” Bones says. There’s a slur to his words, thanks to the fourth glass of scotch neat he’s on.

Nyota rolls her eyes. “Yeah, and you’re not biased or anything.”

Jim wants to ask more, but can’t because, well, obvious reasons. So instead he says, “They don’t seem all that bad, man. And after all, you were the one who introduced me to him and I don’t really get,” he stops because he remembers mixed company.

Hikaru isn’t really paying much attention to him, mostly to his phone where he’s been texting for most of the conversation. When there’s a lull, he looks up and flushes a little. “Busted.”

“What’s up, man?”

“Hubby’s freaking out a little,” he says. “We’re on an adoption waiting list and we had a missed call from the agency today with just a, call us back, message. But they’re closed for the weekend now. I really shouldn’t be here.”

“So go home,” Nyota says, and Jim feels her shift, kick him first, then finally find her target, planting her heel into Hikaru’s shin.

Hikaru smiles a little sheepish, and rubs the back of his neck, but ultimately makes his decision, nodding. “Yeah I. Yeah. I should. You want me to take care of this or…”

“I’ve got it,” Jim says, and he doesn’t miss the suspicious look on his friend’s face who, up to this point knew how fucking broke Jim was, but at Bones’ nod, he just shrugs and waves and heads out.

“You should just tell him. I don’t think he’ll actually care,” Nyota says pointedly.

Jim shrugs. “Well these contracts are secret, and it’s only because you kinky fucks are actually in this business that you know.”

“I haven’t had a baby in months,” Bones protests.

“You’re still in the network,” Jim points out, and chugs the last of his beer which is a little flat now, and kind of nasty. He waves at Galia for another, and she nods across the bar.

“I am one hundred percent unashamed that I got through my entire Ph.D. with a part time job at this idiot’s clinic, and zero debt,” Nyota says with a sniff.

“Dude, choir, me, hark the herald angels and whatever,” Jim says, feeling the beer now, in the way his fingertips are kind of fuzzy, and the way the tip of his nose feels way too warm. “But it’s not exactly my secret to share with one of Spock’s colleagues, is it? Also dude,” he leans in toward Bones, “am I supposed to call him Spock? Or does he go by Tuhhh, chin…fuck. I’m too drunk to remember. He never corrected me so…”

“If you get something wrong, he will,” Bones says with a shrug and leans back. “Trust me, he will not hold back. And anyway Vulcans go by a chosen name and it’s complicated and fucking weird, and he just goes by Spock. Or professor, if that’s some kink you two share or…”

“Uh hard pass on this conversation,” Jim says, and waves him off. 

Nyota pushes past Bones after that to pee, and Jim clutches his beer close to his chest like it’s a tiny, fragile, baby bird. “I don’t get it,” he all-but whines. “Dude is paying me a stupid amount of money, Bones. Like stupid. Like I can’t even think about it or I start to cry. And he hasn’t called me once. It’s been almost three fucking weeks, and I’ve had two absurdly huge payments in my bank account, and the school has stopped calling to remind me to pay my past late fees. And he hasn’t bothered sending for me or…”

“I thought that’s what you wanted,” Bones points out.

Jim huffs, because okay yeah. That’s actually true. The demands Nero made on him were killing him, and the others were triggering things Jim didn’t want to think about, and this is exactly what he wanted. And yet he felt strangely rejected. “I’m so fucked up,” he groans. “Seriously, what is wrong with me?”

“Nothing,” Bones says fiercely, a product of emotion that Jim is in no way sober enough to deal with right then.

Luckily Nyota comes back and demands that she and Bones share a car home, and Jim says he’s got the bill and will see them later. He gets a kiss on the cheek from both of them, and a lasting warmth of a forever sort of friendship he swears to himself he won’t fuck up.

He finishes his beer and thinks about calling for a car, and he pays his tab and like he promised himself, tips Gaila a ridiculous amount of money. Stumbling to the side of the building, he leans against the cold brick, though the temperature doesn’t really register, and he pulls out his phone to order a car.

It’s why he doesn’t see it, the figure in the alleyway. He doesn’t expect the blow to his kidneys, or the sharp metal sliding in, then out of his skin—deep enough to maim, not to kill.

A warning, he thinks as he slides to the ground. He blacks out before he can do anything about it, and just before he’s completely gone, he hopes someone notices.

\--- 

Bones is rightfully pissed, but says very little as he patches Jim up in the office. Someone was drunk enough not to remember to call the cops, but coherent enough to think about checking Jim’s phone in his limp hand and it’s how Bones gets back there twenty minutes later.

Jim’s awake by then, still bleeding but not fatally. He gets to Bones’ office and his doctor is far rougher than he would be normally—partly because of the scotch, and partly because he always blames Jim whenever he gets into fucked up situations—even when it isn’t actually his fault.

“Nero,” Jim mutters as he picks at the tape on the bandages.

Bones smacks his hand away. “I thought you ended it.”

“I did. And his silence was too good to be true. Fucker.” Jim drags a dirty hand down his face and grimaces at the hypo Bones holds against his arm. But hey, being stabbed by a strange shank or whatever means antibiotics and whatever else Bones sees fit to load him up with.

“You need to tell Spock.”

“I’m not telling him shit,” Jim says. “That’s not what he’s paying for.”

“I think he’ll care about this, Jim,” Bones says carefully.

Jim rolls his eyes then tugs his shirt down and hops off the table. Everything aches, but he’s as good as he can be. The knife missed anything vital, so he’s just got stitches and a bruised kidney. Not the worst he’s suffered. “I’m not going to bother him with this, dude. He’s already paying me too much, and for literally nothing.”

“You know we get into these contracts because we want to take care of…”

“You told me your damn self Vulcans don’t actually care about people,” Jim points out.

Bones’ jaw snaps shut, then he says, “Nevertheless, you’re an investment.”

“Oh, that makes me feel really fucking good, thanks man.” He grabs his jacket and heads for the door. “Bill me, by the way. I can afford it now.”

He only barely doesn’t slam the door on his way out.

\--- 

He’s home exactly ten hours and nine minutes before his sleep is interrupted by a rhythmic knocking on his door. Groaning, Jim levers himself from the couch and storms to the door, prepared to tell off whoever the fuck is interrupting his healing sleep.

The words die on his tongue though when he sees Spock standing there, ramrod straight with thinned lips and—if Jim is reading it right—an annoyed quirk of his brow.

“Uh. Come in?” he offers, slightly mortified because he knows that Spock’s place is probably a castle compared to his shitty little one-bedroom apartment with haunted plumbing and a weird stain on the ceiling. He’s got old take-out boxes on his coffee table, and papers from his research literally everywhere.

Spock doesn’t notice any of that, however. His intense gaze is fixed on Jim, as though he can use his Vulcan abilities to see through his skin. It takes him a moment to realize why, and then he curses.

“Fucking _Bones_.”

“If you are referring to intercourse with Doctor McCoy,” Spock begins in that infuriating Vulcan way.

“Jesus. No,” Jim grumbles. “He told you.”

Spock frowns, just slightly, then his expression returns to neutral. “Doctor McCoy was uninvolved in the revelation of your injury. How are you faring?”

“Uh. Fine,” Jim says, slightly absently as he runs his palm down his side where it’s still thick with a bandage. “But okay if Bones didn’t sell me out, how did you figure it out?”

“Our contract states that I am to be responsible for any expenses regarding your person, which includes medical care.”

That fuck. That fucking fuck, Jim thinks angrily. “He actually did bill me,” is what he says aloud.

Spock raises a brow. “Is it not customary for doctors to bill their human patients?”

Jim scrubs a hand down his face. “That’s not the…never mind. Look, it’s no big deal. It was an incident in a bar and it was a superficial wound, and I’m fine.”

Spock’s face, though showing very little expression, doesn’t look convinced. “It’s becoming increasingly evident that you require some sort of protection from these…incidents.”

Jim clenches his jaw in an attempt to hold back what he wants to say, but the pain killers Bones has him on makes that damn near impossible and he just sort of blurts, “Why the fuck do you care?”

Spock blinks rapidly for a moment. “Please clarify the question.”

Fuck, he really does sound like a robot. “I mean,” Jim says, like he’s trying to explain something to a child, “that you haven’t bothered to contact me, you don’t check in, so why do you care if I was hurt?”

Spock looks momentarily taken aback before his face settles. “I was under the impression you preferred your space until I required your companionship.”

“I do. I mean, I love my space and I need time for my research but I guess I kind of thought for the amount of money you’re paying me you might uh…want to spend more time with me?”

Spock takes a minute, then says, “Forgive me, I have offended you.”

“No,” Jim says. “No it’s not…I’m not offended, I just feel kind of useless, you know?”

“I do not know,” Spock says, “but I shall endeavor to be more understanding of human wants. This is a companionship between two people, Mr. Kirk. The needs of one do not outweigh the needs of the other, regardless of who is providing monetary compensation.” Spock pauses again, then says, “Tomorrow, I would like for you to join me for dinner.”

“You don’t have to,” Jim mutters, feeling weirdly chastised, blushing like he normally never does.

Spock gives one single shake of his head. “I would…as you humans say, enjoy your company. If you would be so kind.”

Jim feels like this is a losing battle and frankly his curiosity to get to know this incredibly distant and confusing sugar daddy is eclipsing his pride. “Yeah. Alright.”

“I shall send a car then.” Spock steps back, then stops. “Before I take my leave, I would like to give you my first gift.” He reaches into his jacket, to a pocket on the inside, and pulls out a thin, slender, silver case and holds it out on his palm. “I saw you admiring the one I possess and thought you might like to have one of your own.”

Jim can’t even imagine what it is, and it only becomes clear when he takes the box and opens it. Nestled against black velvet is a fountain pen just like the one in Spock’s office.

“It is crafted on my homeworld,” Spock says, his voice oddly soft. “The ink is made partly from crushed rock that makes up the planet’s surface. It is…something that keeps me connected to home, and it pleases me to share it with you.”

Jim feels like a sudden weight rests on the center of his chest and he doesn’t even know how to begin to express gratitude for this. He expected…he wasn’t even sure. Watches, clothes, cars. All of which would have been appreciated, but he’s never been given something so personal before.

He snaps the lid closed and looks up at Spock and says very carefully, his voice heavy, “Thank you. I very much appreciate this gift.”

Spock inclines his head once, then steps toward the door. “Before I take my leave, is there anything you require to make your recovery more comfortable?”

“Nah,” Jim says, sheepish as he rubs the back of his neck. “Bones has me all covered.” When Spock lifts a brow, he clarifies, “Means he took care of it. We have got to get you up to speed with Earth colloquialisms, man. How did you go to school here and not adapt?”

Spock shrugs. “I found it illogical to immerse myself in Earth slang simply to fit in with my peers. My studies were of more importance.”

Jim snorts. “Yeah well, you’ve got a tutor now, whether or not you like it. See you tomorrow, yeah?”

After a moment, like he’s debating whether or not he’s going to protest Jim’s declaration, Spock then just holds out the Ta’al—something Jim looked up so he knows what it means—then he leaves and closes the door tightly behind him.

It’s only after he’s gone that Jim lets the emotions of the day take him over, and it’s only because the drugs have dulled his senses that he can handle it. He curls back up on the couch, clutching the pen to his chest and feels strangely wanting. Which he can get through, because tomorrow, at least for a little while—at least for a short dinner—he’ll get to actually have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers: After Bones and Uhura leave the bar, Jim is attacked and stabbed in an alley. It's a non-life threatening injury and not described in detail.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jim definitely has a few issues to work through, which will happen as the fic progresses. I appreciate every single comment. I tried to reply yesterday, but Ao3 was not cooperating, so I'll try to get to your comments tomorrow. As before, thank you! Every comment and kudo is giving me both motivation and life!

“I have nothing to wear. Like…literally not a goddamn thing.”

“So show up naked,” Bones grumps on the video call, his eyes straying briefly to Jim’s exposed torso before he cranes his neck to look at the pile of clothes on the bed. “Though it looks like you have half a damned Abercrombie on your bed there, kid.”

“Oh fuck you, I wouldn’t shop there, asshole,” Jim grouses, and picks up the black polo shirt he’s put on then taken off three times now. “I mean, this is slimming, right?”

“You do realize you’re already contracted and that dude is literally bleeding money on you. You don’t need to impress him. He’s not going to dump you because you wore jeans that make your ass look flat.”

Jim turns horrified eyes on the screen. “Oh my _god_ , do I have jeans that make my ass look flat?”

It’s that which causes Bones to disconnect the call, and it’s obvious he’s already warned Hikaru, Nyota, and Anton because none of them pick up when Jim attempts to panic-call the rest of his little social group. He understands logically that Bones is right. Spock’s pretty much seen him at his worst—all drugged up and half-dressed and greasy, and he didn’t end their contract there. Plus if Spock initiates the contract breech, Jim gets paid out so it’s kind of win-win for him.

Only strangely, in a way he can’t really explain, the idea of Spock just kind of chucking him to the side like that makes his insides all twisted up and uncomfortable. And it’s a bizarre feeling because he’s never felt that way before. Ever. The dude is cold, and alien—literally—and he’s the opposite of everything Jim is, and yet Jim finds himself pulled in. He’s got his dream scenario—money literally raining into his bank account, and no obligations to perform in any capacity, and he’s somehow _unsatisfied_.

Clearly something is very, very wrong with him.

All the same, he picks the jeans that he gets the most compliments in, feels like a fucking hormonal, insecure teenager as he takes a bunch of mirror pics, and sends them in a group text to make sure his ass _doesn’t_ look flat.

He just gets a series of annoyed emojis in return from the peanut gallery.

The next time his phone lights up, it’s to alert him that the car is there to pick him up, and he feels his stomach twist. His excitement makes him forget he’s been literally shived in the last thirty hours, and as he races down the stairs, pain lances up his side, and he feels the wound which is still healing, tug. He breathes through it, grips the wall, and when he’s sure he hasn’t torn any of the fragile scar tissue, he makes his way out a lot slower.

Spock has sent an automatic aircar for him so he doesn’t have to make awkward conversation with the driver. He just sends Spock a message saying he’s on his way, and being the polite boy that he was raised to be sends, **Should I pick up anything on the way?**

Spock sends a simple, _Negative_ , and that’s that.

Jim knows he shouldn’t take it personal. Spock doesn’t seem like the sort of guy who texts a lot. Or at all. So maybe even that one word is kind of a win for him.

Spock lives near campus, not far from Jim, but across that line where the poor as fuck grads and undergrads are struggling to make ends meet stops, and the obscenely wealthy beings. The aircar turns up a street, the hill almost startlingly steep the way that San Francisco streets have always been, and it turns down a second street barely wide enough to be considered an alley.

Spock’s got this townhouse, it looks like, behind a wrought iron gate which is covered in vines to provide stark privacy. Jim wonders if it’s because he’s alien, if it’s because Earth is still sort of dealing with the whole different species from across the galaxy making contact and making this place home now. The universities love it, but Jim’s not blind to the protests that are still happening in Rural America from the purists who think the humans of earth should be mixing.

Of course those are the assholes who still use the nearly obsolete Christian bible to protest interracial unions and genders outside the binary so really, they’re not worth listening to.

All the same, he understands that Spock, being who he is—what he is—is probably more complicated than being an immigrant so he gets the secluded way of living. And he feels a sort of thrill, suddenly, at being allowed this. It’s a peek into a world he doesn’t belong in, but is being welcomed into.

It sends a zing up his spine as the gates open, and the car comes to a stop in front of wide doors.

It’s an old Spanish style townhouse with crawling vines up cracked white paint, and there’s a balcony that looks like it would collapse if a hummingbird tried to land on it. It’s got that Old World charm that’s slowly being erased by the rapidly increasing tech taking over the world, and Jim—studying anthropology and the past and loving ancient cultures—feels a sense of mourning for it.

He gets out and his side is aching something fierce now. He puts a hand to it absently, willing his body to just cooperate for fucking _once_ as he gets to the door, and he’s startled but grateful when it swings open and Spock is there to greet him.

He knows that logic dictates that anyone who can afford the money he’s being paid probably has a staff, but Jim’s grateful there’s no strangers around to make him feel completely and totally out of his league. Just Spock, who is wearing some sort of silk garment which looks like a robe, and his feet are bare, and he’s so unfairly attractive Jim’s mouth actually goes dry.

And it’s not a feeling he’s accustomed to. Jim understands pleasing aesthetic, but he’s so rarely attracted to people like this, he actually halts his steps.

Then the heat hits him and he suddenly can’t think of anything but. Because holy shit it’s Sahara desert hot.

“Wow is it always…is your AC broken or…”

“Vulcan is a desert planet. My species has adapted to temperatures much higher than Terran standards. I have adjusted the sitting room to accommodate your intolerance,” Spock says, and waves his hand at a door sitting half open.

Jim can’t help himself and all-but rushes into the room. It’s still warm, and still kind of humid, but far less oppressive. His excessive sweating has stopped, but the quick movements triggered his injury to flare again, and he groans.

Spock does not miss the reaction, and is at Jim’s side in an instant, his pale fingers lifting Jim’s shirt before he pulls back. “Forgive me. I should have asked permission. I am merely concerned that Doctor McCoy provided subpar treatment the night you were injured.”

Jim wants to defend Bones because fuck you, he’s the best doctor on Earth, but they also were a little drunk. Or well, a lot drunk. “I promise I’m fine. It’s just new, but it’s healing.”

“Do you require another pass from a dermal regenerator ?” Spock asks. “I have a physician on standby, he mainly works with Vulcans but he is well qualified to heal something of this superficiality.”

Jim shakes his head, and tugs his shirt down. “Really, I’m fine. I just need to take it easy.”

“Then I suggest you sit, and I will ensure our dinner is prepared on time.”

He leaves, and Jim notes that there is at least some staff since it’s obvious Spock isn’t cooking. And, it seems, that although Spock isn’t the one cooking, he’s gone long enough that Jim gets tired of sitting on the strangely upholstered couch, and he gets up, starting to wander.

He feels a little unprepared to be in a Vulcan home, feels like he’s failed slightly by not doing more research on the Vulcan people. They’re secretive and not much is known about them, but Jim realizes that maybe some of his studies could have been diverted from ancient human culture, to more beyond their small piece of the universe.

The room itself is devoid of a lot of things humans would normally keep—photos of family members, personal effects, even the art there looks like it came from some sort of Style and Living magazine spread. He tries and almost dissolves into giggles when he thinks about Spock perusing paintings of water lilies and horses running through a stream. But that’s what adorns the walls, and the only thing that looks personal and used is a 3D chess set which is set up in the corner.

Jim’s poking at one of the knights that’s been laid off to the side when Spock returns and clears his throat. “Do you play?” Spock asks.

Jim jumps a little, grinning sheepishly like a kid caught sneaking into a cookie jar, and he puts the knight back before turning. “Ah. Actually, I do.”

Spock gives this some thought, a barely discernable frown tipping his eyebrows low before he says, “Perhaps you would like to engage me in a match, Mr. Kirk?”

“Jim,” he corrects almost absently. “And as fun as that sounds, I’m not sure my pride can take you wiping the floor with me and your Vulcan logic and intelligence.”

Spock hesitates, it’s obvious by the way he curls his hands into fists at his sides, then uncurls them and holds them behind his back. “I confess—and I do not make this confession to just anyone, _Jim_ , but I have found myself having trouble securing solid victories against human opponents.”

Jim can’t help the way his eyes go wide. “Really? That seems…uh. Surprising.”

“Indeed,” Spock says. He takes two steps forward, and for whatever reason, that makes Jim’s heart beat a little faster. “I find human lack of logic and their impulsive decision making to be difficult to anticipate. It makes for a rather fascinating game of chess, and is one of the reasons I decided I should continue my tenure as a professor here rather than returning to Vulcan when my parents did so.”

Jim snorts. “Must be annoying to feel bested by a race you don’t really like,” he says without really thinking.

Spock bristles and his voice—for all that Jim can read it—actually sounds a little cold. “I am uncertain what gave you the impression that I do not like humans, but I do find it a most illogical assumption on your part. I am a professor of your species, and have engaged in not one but two contracts for human companionship.”

Jim flushes. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I guess I just assumed. Uh…Vulcan attitude toward humans is kind of…I guess it’s a stereotype that they find themselves superior.”

“An accurate one,” Spock confirms. “But as the humans are so fond of saying, it is unwise to paint us all with such a broad brush.”

Jim can’t help a smile as he closes the distance between them even further. “So you don’t hate humans.”

“Quite the contrary,” is all Spock says.

Jim wants to press more, but he’s directed to the dining room which is oddly less formal than the parlor. The table is small, seating four, and it’s laid out with an array of grilled vegetables and some sort of rice-looking thing in serving bowls. There’s a bowl of soup in front of their places, and a basket of bread nearby.

“I hope you do not find it invasive that I consulted your medical records before informing my chef of your unique needs regarding food. Jim,” he adds like it’s an afterthought.

“Oh,” Jim says as he sits, realizing what the hell Spock’s talking about. “Right. My allergies. It’s fine, man. I mean, okay they suck and I have a lot, but also Bones keeps me pretty well stocked up on hypos so if I ever go into anaphylactic shock, I’m covered.” He pats his pocket where the little hypo sits.

“Nevertheless,” Spock says carefully as he picks up his spoon, “As you have not been exposed to Vulcan flora, I have had the dishes prepared with Terran ingredients, though in the Vulcan style so you can, as they say, enjoy the best of both worlds.”

Jim can’t help another grin, or the way he feels strangely warm every time Spock uses a human expression. He digs into the soup which is kind of purply and it’s blander than he expects, but it’s warm and fills him. The vegetables and rice are so uniquely seasoned, he can’t really compare them to anything he’s ever had, but they’re fantastic.

“I’d totally be able to give up meat at least a few days a week if I had someone cooking for me like this,” he says with a mouthful of the strange bread.

Spock inclines his head just once as he finishes his own dish. There’s no real conversation, and Jim thinks it’s probably a Vulcan thing that they don’t talk much over the meal. But there’s tea served after—a strange spicy concoction which he doesn’t entirely love, but drinks to be polite. And then they retire back to the parlor and Jim feels comfortable there, but also like he still hasn’t gotten to know Spock at all.

He resolves to actually ask a few questions, but he’s waylaid by Spock the second they sit down. “I wish to inquire a…favor of sorts,” he says, and sounds more hesitant than Jim has heard him so far.

“Yeah, shoot,” Jim says.

Spock frowns. “I have no intention of discharging any sort of weapon that…”

“No I…that’s…” Jim flounders. “It just means go ahead.”

“Ah.” Spock clears his throat, a sound so faint Jim almost doesn’t hear it. “I find myself…in a state of distress by your living conditions.”

Jim immediately bristles, feeling immediately defensive. “Look man, I might not have some fancy salary which can get me some place like this, but I do have other financial obligations and it’s not like I’m living in some shithole without electricity or plumbing or…”

“You misunderstand,” Spock says, quiet and slightly abashed. Jim quickly shuts up. “While I confess that your living quarters do leave something to be desired, it is not my intention to imply they are not adequate. You seem well cared for and very…at home,” he says, like he’s trying the human expression. “I merely wish to express concern that you are vulnerable. Although you are capable of defending yourself, your attacker has proven able to cause you harm—potential grievous injury, which I find unacceptable. I find it would ease my mind if you would agree to perhaps share residence with me until we have this situation under control.”

Jim blinks owlishly, working his jaw for a minute. “I…you want me to stay here. With you? Like…here in your house?”

Spock inclines his head. “Affirmative. We can regulate the temperature to your satisfaction, and as my work often finds me in my offices late, I do not think my presence will disrupt your research, study, or attendance of lectures.”

Jim clears his throat. “No ah. No I’m…not worried about that. Just…I’m not exactly the easiest person to live with. I mean, I don’t live in a shithole, but I’m also not exactly great at cleaning up after myself, especially when I get lost in my work. And uh…your place is so nice and…” _And there’s no way I belong here, this isn’t me, this isn’t mine and it feels…_

“It would please me, and I would be willing to accommodate your needs, whatever they may be,” Spock says, his voice drowning out Jim’s spiraling thoughts.

Jim bites his lip and he’s afraid because he’s not used to good things, soft things, things that aren’t secretly barbed and sharp edged, designed to cause the shallow cuts that leave him bleeding out. Nero was what he expected. Not…not this.

“You know, the guy after me, he’s just an insecure little punk,” Jim says quietly, a little petulantly. “He sent some asshole to shank me from behind, couldn’t even do it himself. For what? Pride? Trust me, he’ll give up.”

“Be that as it may, I find the threat to your person unsettling,” Spock says. “And I find I would not be adverse to your company.”

Jim chews on the inside of his cheek a little. It makes him think of the one time his bio professor gave a lecture to all the vegans in the class. _“You think you don’t eat things that come from animals? Every time you chew your precious vegetables, you’re chewing your own cheek cells. You consume matter from animals every single day.”_ It was, hands down, the strangest lecture Jim had ever attended. Two people walked out.

He releases the skin of his cheek and feels it puff up from the way he was worrying it, and forces his mind back to the offer Spock is making. As much as he wants to decline, to let his pride and—yeah, stupidity—dictate his answer, he thinks maybe it’s a bad idea to say no. Not only for himself, but for the man funding his lifestyle. A guy giving him twenty grand a month should have a little say. It’s the least Jim can do.

“Alright,” he says.

There’s a line of tension in Spock’s shoulders that went unnoticed by Jim until it was suddenly gone. There’s a lightness to his expression now to, as he inclines his head once and clasps his hands in front of himself. “I will accompany you to your apartment so you can take the things you need. Anything else can be provided here, including transportation to the campus. I would also like to have security look into the attack further.”

“Okay,” Jim says, agreeable because damn it, that’s what he’s supposed to do. “That’s fine.”

Spock hesitates, like he senses Jim isn’t actually in this all the way, but then he just stands. “I can show you to a room then, unless you require a trip back to your apartment?”

“Nah,” Jim says, then slaps his thighs as he stands. “It’s cool. I can sleep in boxers, and I don’t have class tomorrow so I can smell a little rank for a bit.”

Spock makes a considering noise in his throat, but says nothing further as he leads Jim down the hall, to where he’ll be spending the foreseeable future.


End file.
